


Hey, Mind If I'm Loud? [OMAKE]

by melonsflesh



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, aka self-indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonsflesh/pseuds/melonsflesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saruhiko turned his head and confirmed that the area below one of his shoulders was, indeed, noticeably redder than the rest of his natural pigmentation. He also noted how Misaki’s pride and sense of coercion inflated at his own expense, after all, despite how much the redhead claimed he wasn’t like Saruhiko <i>at all</i>.</p>
<p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3870343">Hey, Mind If We’re Loud?</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Mind If I'm Loud? [OMAKE]

**Author's Note:**

> So I felt HMIWL? was lacking a bit of a, uh, prolonged ending so here you go!  
> The POV is switched from Misaki to Saruhiko this time.

Without really realizing it, Misaki’s insistence had made them wander from their bedroom to the main room, to the kitchen, and back to their bedroom once again.

“Ah, I give up,” Misaki exhaled with a teasing, playful tone as he gave a slight squeeze on Saruhiko’s shoulders before his hands loosened and released their grip. As much fun he had had the last couple of minutes of that night, Saruhiko had been doing a splendid job in resisting Misaki’s attempts to make him turn his head toward him and let him be a victim of his taunting. Saruhiko was _slightly_ proud of that, even though Misaki didn’t seem to be quite over with it yet. The redhead would probably bring the subject up later, one way or another. He wasn’t going to let such an opportunity like that slip by, Saruhiko just knew.

He released an inaudible sigh and heard Misaki let out a soft snort behind him. Immediately after, one of Misaki’s hands came to rest on the top of his head.

“I’m getting a snack,” Misaki said as he ruffled Saruhiko’s unruly hair for two fleeting seconds before he walked out the room, humming cheerily to himself with a soft, crooning voice, “ _Dessert, dessert...”_

_So enthusiastic._

Both the gentle touch and Misaki’s absence left a temporary vacuous feeling that Saruhiko covered up by sitting on the edge of the bed and raising his glasses between his sight and the ceiling light, looking for any traces of dirt or damage. Thankfully, they were nonexistent, so there was no material evidence of his little accident, meaning the only remainders of his misfortune lied solely in his and Misaki’s mind. Or so he hopefully thought.

He braced a hand on the mattress, ready to let his body flop back on the bed, but the sudden stinging pain in his back prompted him to interrupt his actions and return to his previous upright position. He reflexively brought his fingers to the base of his nape and massaged the area above one of his shoulder blades, pressing just _enough_ for his shoulders to tense with a quick jolt.

It hurt.

The moment his miscalculation made his limbs fight uselessly against gravity lasted just a fleeting second, but he remembered how his body had rolled over mechanically, although probably not fast or swiftly enough to prevent his upper back from colliding with the edge of the nightstand right next to the bed.

He sure didn’t feel any pain back then —tomorrow, perhaps— but the consequences had begun to show up earlier than expected.

“Tsk.”

Saruhiko clicked his tongue as he stood up, the tip of his fingers still lingering at the top of his spine as he walked out the room and caught a glimpse of Misaki’s back, still as joyous as ever at the kitchen, while he headed to the bathroom and immediately pulled his shirt off and turned his head to inspect the state of his newly acquired injury through the reflection of the mirror. He confirmed that the area below one of his shoulders was, indeed, noticeably redder than the rest of his natural pigmentation.

_Just how much of a fool could one be?_

His eyebrows pulled down with a slight glare born of irritation directed at no one but himself. He felt _frustrated_ at the stupidity of his inefficient reflexes, and right before extending their little session of —how would Misaki put it?— showing affection toward each other, no less.

Well, he did live with Misaki, so he could live with that, too.

“Hey, Saru,” Misaki’s voice interrupted his chagrin.

“Mm?”

“What’s this?”

_This._ Saruhiko withdrew his sight from his own reflection to roll his eyes at Misaki’s specificity, but still indulged him —how could he not— with his reply. “What?”

“This,” Misaki repeated, “at the bottom of the fridge. It’s orange.”

Saruhiko’s eyes widened at that. At the _timing_.

_The bottom. Orange._

“Well—it’s orange, outside. The inside is... brown?” Misaki went on and gave a pause, as if he had stopped to take said unknown item to inspect it closer, but Saruhiko didn’t need to hear more to _know_.

He had just _forgotten_ , but he still knew.

-

_Sometimes, Saruhiko hated his subconscious; that little thing that he was an expert at ignoring, but that sometimes, sometimes,_ screamed _at him —like that morning— to stray from his habitual way to take a glance at the cake shop he would definitely not pay attention to_ _—like always— w_ _ere it just any other day. But it wasn’t, for he could still hear Misaki’s angered voice and imagine the crease between Misaki’s eyebrows that he didn’t quite get to see because he had turned his back before that, right below the forehead he pressed his lips into that morning._

_That had been their closest physical contact in two days. Two days._

_Perhaps he should do something. Perhaps._

_He could, so he stopped walking and reached the front of the cake shop with hesitation. A young woman —one of the cooks, apparently— on the other side of the window regarded him with what one could take as a friendly expression, a half-smile, but why would he have the will or the desire to return her gesture?_

_Misaki’s smile._

_That was something he hadn’t seen in two days._

_“Tsk.”_

_With that knowledge in mind and the few coins inside his pockets bumping against his nails, his eyes scanned through the little flans and their molds —red, blue, orange, green— as he thought to himself, ‘I’ll be back after work. Probably.’_

-

_“Which color?”_

_Red? Nah. Blue? Well... Green... eugh._

_“Ah... orange, please,” Saruhiko took a brief pause, “Can I keep it in the freezer?”_

_“Um, I wouldn’t recommend it. You can put it in for a few minutes before eating it, though, if you’d like.”_

_Well. “No longer than that.”_

_It wasn’t a question, but the cook replied, anyway, “I’m afraid not.”_

-

“O—Oh! This is—”

Saruhiko couldn’t ignore the way Misaki let out a loud gasp, almost in awe, and his tone settled back into the one he had before he decided he was finished taunting his boyfriend a few minutes ago. He heard the redhead’s steps moving closer, but fading away too soon, probably taking him to their empty bedroom.

“Saruhiko, _you_ ,” Misaki’s voice ranged from serious to teasing, and to something else that Saruhiko really didn’t care enough to find out, his mind occupied in wanting to spend the rest of the night without any more _displeasure_ than what he’d been through. “You really are—”

_So, so loud._

Whatever accusative word was to come next, Saruhiko noted how Misaki’s pride and sense of coercion inflated at his own expense, after all, despite how much the redhead claimed he wasn’t like Saruhiko _at all_.

_Yeah, right._ Saruhiko’s eyebrows went down in a defensive stare, readying himself to confront Misaki’s —Mocking? Defying?— stance as he walked out the bathroom. His mouth pursed into a light scowl right before Misaki turned around.

“Really, really are—ah.”

Their eyes met briefly, but Misaki’s seemed to be more distracted by the enormous display of skin in front of him.

_So obvious._

Saruhiko caught the exact moment that Misaki’s smirk dropped into a gawk and his expression turned into a mixture of confusion and something akin to embarrassment. The way he tried _so hard_ to turn his eyes away from his bare chest was so evident and highly entertaining that Saruhiko almost didn’t mind enjoying every second of it while he still could.

“Why... did you take your shirt off?” Misaki asked, and Saruhiko didn’t respond and walked past him instead, letting Misaki see and reach his own conclusions for himself—he was going to, eventually, sooner or later. “Saru, your back—”

“It’s nothing,” Saruhiko cut him off sharply, but with no signs of malice or irritation.

“Was that... because of... just now?”

Misaki’s voice wasn’t one imbued with amusement anymore, but concern. Saruhiko clicked his tongue, failing to comprehend why he should make a big deal of something as insignificant.

“I’ve been through worse,” he stated as he walked into their bedroom.

Misaki followed him and huffed in disagreement. “That doesn’t make it less bad,” he paused, “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Saruhiko replied by instinct as he grabbed the edges of his shirt to turn it inside out, but he wasn’t expecting a hand to press into his back, _gently_ , but there nonetheless, and felt a slight sense of remorse when his shoulders flinched without his consent. “ _Ngh_.”

“It’s my fault,” Misaki almost whispered.

“It’s not your fault, Misaki,” Saruhiko’s words were loud enough to make his point clear and exempt Misaki from feeling a culpability that wasn’t his, really. Sensing Misaki’s eyes still on him, he let out a sigh and continued, “Don’t stand there like you haven’t ever seen—” he began, but a set of tan fingers suddenly rested on his shoulders and trailed down until they reached his elbows, and his body stilled, at the abruptness and at how warm Misaki’s hands were—wasn’t he just rummaging through the fridge a few seconds ago?

Always so predictable, but not predictable enough at all.

“Misaki,” he uttered and turned his head as Misaki's warm lips brushed against his nape before planting a soft kiss at the top of his spine. Saruhiko's chest rose with a shuddered breath, the contact sending a shiver down his arms. He did mind, a little, Misaki realizing the slight tremor of his skin in the heated grip of his palms, but if the redhead did, he didn’t comment on it and kept pressing his lips to Saruhiko’s back, specifically where smooth porcelain met a hot, pinkish red, while his thumbs rubbed slow circles above Saruhiko’s elbows.

Saruhiko’s shoulders hunched forwards slightly, the delicate way Misaki covered his back with the light touch of his lips starting to affect him greatly more than he thought, and when Misaki let out a hum, he believed the little noise came with a smile, too.

Apparently done with his little healing session, Misaki then jumped in front of him and took Saruhiko’s shirt from his hands to finish turning it inside out, his grin wide and not once looking up while he did.

“You’re not allowed to question my methods.”

It was an order that Misaki voiced with an absurd sense of conviction as he held his index finger between them. Saruhiko took his shirt back and raised an eyebrow, thinking he could live with that and with the faint red on Misaki’s cheeks, and with the way Misaki covered his awkwardness with simple, unexpected gestures that felt slightly unfamiliar, but not bad at all.

“Wasn’t going to,” Saruhiko said and took the silence that came next to put his shirt back on.

“So, about that pudding in the fridge,” Misaki began, and when Saruhiko clicked his tongue, Misaki’s smile only stretched wider.

“It’s _flan_ ,” Saruhiko retorted with a roll of his eyes and climbed on the bed to gather up the stray papers scattered all over it and set them on the nightstand. He then took his glasses off, placing them above the collected folders, before he slid onto the mattress with meticulous slowness.

He wasn’t looking, but he knew Misaki’s lips were still curled into a silly smile as he spoke, tone heavy and mocking. “Oh, flan, _right_. My bad.”

“Whatever. Are you coming or not?” Saruhiko said hastily as he puffed up his pillow and lay on his good shoulder. He had had dinner before, after all.

“I’m taking a shower first,” Misaki said and waved his hand, “won’t take long.”

-

Saruhiko prevented himself from turning his head and peeking at Misaki while he got dressed, seeing how Misaki was being extremely quiet and cautious. Before long, the light switch clicked off and when Saruhiko felt the bed sink down, he instinctively leaned into the source of warmth by his side, pressing his forehead into Misaki’s chest and nestling his head into the crook of Misaki’s arm. As Misaki pulled him into his body, Saruhiko slipped a leg between the redhead’s thighs—his pants pushed up and his skin met Misaki’s ankles, hot and muscular, and his toes curled when Misaki rested a hand on his waist to keep him closer.

Misaki’s fingers then ran up his back and his knuckles brushed over Saruhiko’s injury through his shirt.

“Let’s try it tomorrow,” Misaki paused, “the pudding.”

_Ah, right, the... snack._

“I thought that was obvious,” Saruhiko’s words drawled out with a soft, languid pace, and he couldn’t help but feel contentedness and serenity with how despite the fresh remnants of soap clinging to Misaki’s skin, Misaki smelled like sand and leaves.

"I mean—the flan," Misaki added.

"Mm."

"Together."

"Misaki."

"Mm?"

"You're being loud."

Misaki snorted. "And you're unbelievable."

Saruhiko didn't respond, but he shook his leg against Misaki's thigh, and Misaki laughed.


End file.
